search

If Your Cat’s In A Jam – Who You Going To Call?

Paw, the cat/kitten,

Black as good-bye,

With one white mitten,

Has disappeared.

I sent a note,

By boat,

To Sister Darling of

The Rarified Church of the World (reformed)

To come and help me search

Partridge Island.

She arrived with a

Boatful of Evangelists to assist.

Now, put their proselytizing beliefs aside,

And you can’t do better than

A boatful of Evangelists

To get a job done.

They packed seventeen adherents of

The Rarified Church of the World (reformed)

Onto a fishing boat,

And faster than you can say Holy Roller,

A search of Partridge Island began.

They – like me – first started at the Lighthouse,

But to no avail.

Nor any luck at my Lighthouse Keepers House.

So,

They broke into three groups,

One up each side and shore of the island,

And the biggest group up through the centre.

It’s not a big island,

But – Jesus –

It’s big enough.

Sister Darling and I

Moved from group to group.

Five and one half hours and four minutes later,

There was a yell,

From the direction of the left shore.

“Come!” “COME!”

Sister Darling and I ran.

I stumbled, and she pulled me up.

And we ran again.

When we got to the searchers,

They just gaped and pointed.

I hesitated, but Sister Darling

Pulled me again.

And when we reached the place

I gaped myself.

That miserable, cantankerous, intransigent cat.

That insistent insistent insistent animal,

Was guarding a brood of baby rabbits,

Their pecked and ravaged mother at their side.

Paw had become a feral protector.

And would let nothing near.

Until Sister Darling spoke, and cooed his name.

When she touched him, he almost fell over from fatigue.

Those Blessed Evangelists picked up each baby,

And snuggled them carefully into a pocket.

Sister Darling handed Paw to me and

– Sweet Jesus, I confess it –

I was crying.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2024 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}

DE BA. UEL

04/20/2024 0

When They Poured Across The Border / I Was Cautioned To Surrender ~ L Cohen

I crossed the border yesterday, in this time of Pandemic. On an intercity bus. Restricted to nine passengers. At least I had a seat to myself.

The last time I crossed a border under threat of reprisal was decades ago. I entered (and left) Czechoslovakia (as it was then called) by train. I had gone to Prague to follow the footsteps of Kafka. Then the concern of authorities was all about smuggling. Dire consequences that could put you in prison. And, on my way back out of the country, I was subject to a random search. Open my luggage, and spread what items the soldier decreed upon the seat and aisle, as he poked and prodded. He took interest in an object ( I forget what it was) which quite quickly could be seen to be a commercial souvenir. Thankfully. My careful packing had then to be shoved helter-skelter back into my luggage. Better a jumble than a jail.

So, crossing the border in the same country in this time of Pandemic was not as filled with anxiety, though anxious I still was. Although travel restrictions are being loosened and (at least in this neck of the woods) the Curve is being flattened,

Death stalks the Land / and keep washing your hands.

I did change my seat once, because a passenger changed seats to “have a better view”. That seat was across the aisle from me.

I was handed a form to fill out by the bus driver at a transfer station (nearly empty of people) to give to the border guards if they asked. Apparently they did not ask for it all that often. Where are you coming from/where are you going to. Name. Full address. Reason for travel. Do you have any symptoms?

So, with mask in place (well … a lot of the time – though always when off the bus) I had a reasonably pleasant trip on a reasonably pleasant day. Lots of elbow room. There was an hour’s delay at the actual border. When it was the turn for the bus, no officer actually did board to check us out. Or take our forms. However, the driver handed his PA microphone out the window so the officer could tell us that: “Anyone breaking the fourteen (14) day quarantine upon arrival was subject to a $1,000 fine.”

I’ve got thirteen (13) days left.

[image] https://cbsnews2.cbsistatic.com/hub/i/r/2018/08/06/8ae2e881-5500-4b09-876f-e1cf5bdecaad/thumbnail/1200×630/bda4ff327e62a7e92030aad7cc2e1693/ctm-0806-canada-us-border.jpg

06/11/2020 0

Hunting For A Mailbox And Finding Jesus

The Coronavirus makes strange bedfellows. Or – maybe not. World wide doom, and destruction, and Jesus perhaps go hand-in-hand. The One is there to cancel out the other.

At any rate, yesterday I was in search of a mailbox. To mail an actual letter. It is possible it was the first *actual* letter of the year. And a bit time sensitive. There was no going to the Post Office, it being Sunday and a Pandemic to boot. So I went searching for a local mail box.

I imagine at the best of times I’m not fully aware of the closest mail box. There used to be one at the closest gas station, but that had been totally renovated and the mail box removed. The next closest was at the local Mall, but walking there revealed the Mall was closed, since everything inside was closed. So a search began.

It made sense that any area where there was a grouping of buildings might have a mail box. Passing a Donut Shop (open to take-out only) and a Library (closed) and a bar (closed) yielded nowhere to mail a letter. However – in the distance – down the hill and across the road, there seemed to be a stark red box. It was in front of a large Seniors Complex. Perhaps Seniors mail more letters. Investigation eventually showed it was a Mail Box, and into its maw went my tiny envelope. To be picked up next day. So I hope that has now happened.

On the way back, after a well-deserved sit on a bench in a small park (more than two meters / six feet away from anyone else), upon coming closer to home, music filled the air. Guitars and drums and female voices singing (at the first encounter) what sounded like Joan Baez songs.

However, upon entering a new street, it was apparent that the large church, with its commanding view of the city, was having an outside church service in their expansive parking lot. Cars parked a safe distance apart, with men wearing orange safety vests making sure the rules were enforced. The musicians and singers were under a portico at the front of the church, and they were belting out hymns aplenty. Heard, I am sure, across much of the city..

I’m sure Jesus was clapping along.

(photo) https://blackburnnews.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/03/Canada-Post-Mail-Box-e1364395443530.jpg

04/27/2020 0

As Kafka Tip Toes Past While You Sleep

In my novel about Franz Kafka, where I fill in his “missing” diary entries, I create many dreams, because Kafka often recounted his dreams. For a recent blog, I searched the ether world for an image that included Kafka & Dreams. To my surprise, a quote came up, by Kafka, that I never came across before. Even with its doubtful provenance, I used it.

I later tried to track down the quote, and it seems this source is the only source. A monograph called Franz Kafka by Franz Baumer. But it is such a Kafka-like comment, I’ll take it.

Also, in hunting for this source, I came across a site called ‘Fuck Yeah Franz Kafka. Which is an attitude I much admire.

The Kafka story and quote:

“Once while visiting his friend Max Brod, young Kafka awakened Brod’s father, who was asleep on a couch. Instead of apologizing, Kafka gently motioned him to relax, advanced through the room on tiptoe, and said softly: “Please – consider me a dream.”’ from Franz Kafka by Franz Baumer

The unrelated site:

fuckyeahfranzkafka.tumblr.com

Jan 9, 2019 – Where people come together to celebrate the greatest author of the 20th century.

03/10/2020 0

Google Slut Rides The Links

Today’s Google doodle informs me it is Teacher’s Day, 2015. Fittingly, it is also the day that, via Groucho Marx’s mustache, I accept the fact I’m a Google slut.

A character in the screenplay I’m writing referred to his mustache, and said it was taped on. This is a long-ago nugget of information that I thought I knew. However, best to make sure, and that’s what Google can so often allow. It turns out Groucho used grease paint in the movies. He indeed had his own mustache for the TV shows. And perhaps, if I had kept following link after link, I would have found some reference to black tape once used.

It was all relatively moot anyway, because the character uttering the comment is not the sharpest knife in the drawer, and could make such a mistake. However, unless announced on high like Mrs. Malaprop’s comments in Sheridan’s “The Rivals”, the doubt probably falls upon the author.

But, just as I this minute used Google to confirm the information about Mrs. Malaprop (I would have spelled Sheridan’s name incorrectly), so, as with Groucho’s mustache, I find myself a willing slave to Google.

Last week I was reading an online Atlantic Monthly article about how our minds are altering with this great influx of information. Our attention spans are becoming fragmented. I have not yet finished reading this article because I moved on to other things. I cut-and-pasted it and emailed it to myself for later consumption. I do this more and more often. For instance, I eventually read Doris Lessing’s Nobel Prize speech just last month.

So, does Google bless me as it ruins me? Does it offer me the wealth of the ages yet diminish my own innate abilities? I know I’m not going to rein in my use.

By the way, I just Googled “Google Slut”. According to Urban Dictionary, it is “A person who is on the computer so much that it is like they are f***ing it”.

Well, asterisk them, say I

10/05/2015 0